


A Silent Shroud, Lifted

by RootsOfOurRemiges



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, And Crowley Loves It, Aziraphale Is Loud, Discreet Gentlemen's Club (Good Omens), Gay Male Character, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28878528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RootsOfOurRemiges/pseuds/RootsOfOurRemiges
Summary: Someday, the love that dare not speak its name will find its voice, and with it the demand to call aloud and be heard.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Other(s), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 97





	A Silent Shroud, Lifted

Aziraphale is naturally vocal during sex, and with Crowley he is free at last to be, to dissipate the careful hush he had wrapped around himself and quieted to a whisper in recent centuries.

On his elbows and face-down in Crowley’s bed (now _their_ bed, moved from London to occupy the sunlit bedroom of a cottage by the sea), the familiar position takes him back to his old clubs of secrecy, and his carefully vetted inn rooms for other such discreet occasions. Discretion that had him minding every shared wall, as even on Portland Place for all its affluence, a building still had a neighbor to its left and to its right just as anywhere else. It had always found him stifling his moans into the bedspread, breathing in the strong laundry soap that disguised the mustiness of the service corridors and adjoining washbasins, the reminder that all the laundering had to be done strictly on the premises, of course. The fraught, restrained grunts of each lover iterated over the shell of his ear, punctuating endearments that were helpless to conceal the heartache of being made to love in hushed tones this way.

Quiet, now. Let nothing slip, let not one soul hear lest they _talk_. Lest this fragile sanctuary be kicked in from the outside.

He carries the same wistful ache in his chest today, that so many men lived and died too soon to see the world as it could one day become, a world with wedding bands and homes with large windows and a view of the sea.

A world where the bed shared by two men (or two not-quite-human but likewise male creatures) is their _own_ , a place for letting the sun stream in through the skylight above to warm their backs and the sheets below them, free from the claustrophobic confines of thin walls and eavesdropping neighbors, a place for _making love_ unbound and unafraid.

It’s a good thing Crowley enjoys him loud and talkative, always begs him for more of those sweet cries and those plaintive, demanding, grateful, _loving_ words, because after so much time spent quieting himself, Aziraphale’s not sure he could hold them back now if he tried.

“You like that, angel?” Crowley prompts him now, needing to hear more of him, needing so much that Aziraphale feels his trembling through the palm resting at the small of his back, even through the full-bodied snap of Crowley’s hips making his own flesh ripple and shake on impact.

“I love it, oh, _Crowley_ — I love it so much. Your cock, it’s — ah, _ah!_ — you fill me so well, so deep, _just_ like that, oh darling, _please—_ ”

There’s no mistaking how instantly Crowley thrills at those words, those sounds, the very evidence of it pulsing within Aziraphale against his prostate. So close now.

Crowley swivels his hips, the gyration drawing circles with them over Aziraphale’s skin, and the bed dips just so as Crowley adjusts the position of his knees. He steadies himself and falls forward onto Aziraphale’s back to lie flush against him, wrapping both long arms around Aziraphale’s middle and sucking kisses into the back of his neck, while his thrusts shift from long steady strokes into a frantic grinding that moves deep within Aziraphale without ever separating them.

“Angel, angel, I’m gonna—” he pants into Aziraphale’s ear, one hand squeezing Aziraphale’s waist and the other wrapping around his cock, pumps of his fist climbing ever higher and higher still with Aziraphale’s cries.

“I know, me — oh, _fuck_ — me too. Ah, Crowley!”

Crowley comes first, but it’s a close race. Aziraphale is on the verge of tipping over already with the rapid bursts of pressure over his prostate and with Crowley’s hand palming at him between his belly and the mattress, but it’s the sudden rush of liquid warmth filling him that does him in completely. He comes hard with a wail that stutters over each concurrent aftershock, tilting his hips up to push back against Crowley’s, prolonging the contact. He realizes with no small satisfaction as he regains awareness that Crowley’s orgasm is _still_ going, that he’s still keening and shuddering into Aziraphale’s shoulder, receding but still occasionally pulsing inside while Aziraphale clenches around him.

Both sated, both stilled by the time they’ve wrung each other out completely, they ease apart just long enough to fetch a cloth and clean up, a process slowed up by an endless supply of languid kisses, but there’s hardly anything urgent on the agenda for today, so they’ll be as unhurried as they please. A wonderful thing to finally take for granted.

The day’s still young, and the hamper is now full with the addition of the bedsheets, so perhaps Aziraphale will get started on the washing while Crowley sees to whatever type of breakfast and/or lunch is best suited to 10:42 in the morning. They could eat at the little table in the garden, while the sheets dry on the clothesline under the open sky.

A silent declaration in (admittedly) loud tartan, of a home with one bed, one shared life, and two voices ringing together in the elation and comfort of love.


End file.
